Work Text:
1605, England
Of all the many studios he had worked in, it was in the Purple Room that Jungkook felt most at home.
No doubt, he didn’t own the studio - that luxury belonged to Yoongi, the eldest son of House Min - but it was in the Purple Room that he felt most inspired and at peace. Yoongi left him to his own devices most of the time, and had ordered the servants to bring him some rather luxurious meals thrice a day. He had, on occasion, found it hard to concentrate on his art when young Lord Jung visited the mansion for some horseback riding (the shrieks from the yard as the Min’s stallion bucked and attempted, in vain, to throw Hoseok off were intolerable), but by and by, the living was good and his work proceeded as planned.
Unlike young master Min, who would sleep in till the balmy hours of the late afternoon, Jungkook often awoke at the crack of dawn. Pulling a loose, white dress shirt on, he would embark on a brisk walk in the east gardens of the Min estate, eager to catch the first colours of the sunrise. There he would stand - his arms stretched out at the sides, his sleeves catching the light breeze. But as soon as the sun rose, the young man would then return to the Purple Room, where he was rumoured to remain perched before his easel, painting for hours on end without rest.
It was this reclusive behaviour that his foster brother was so prone to that Yoongi was determined to get rid of - he hadn’t seen Jungkook for days, and he was starting to suspect that the boy had died in the studio. After all, the servants often claimed that food often returned to the kitchens half eaten or untouched, and that the floor-length windows of the Purple Room often remained tightly shut.
“Jungkook ah…” Yoongi knocked loudly on the door, slamming the brass knocker as hard as he could, as Hoseok pressed his ear to the smooth oak.
“I can’t hear anything,” Hoseok said.
“The doors are several inches thick, Jung.”
“I have elevated senses, I can hear things from a mile away.”
Yoongi snorted. With a tilt of his head, he gestured to his butler to deal with the locks - hoping that Jungkook hadn’t pushed some chairs up against the door. The man slid an old, rusty brass key into the lock, and twisted it with some effort. The locks clicked open, and the butler stepped aside to allow Yoongi and Hoseok to enter the room.
The Purple Room was darker than Yoongi had ever seen it in all twenty years of his life - not that he spent much time cleaning paintbrushes or sculpting marble in the room. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness as the butler hurried to draw the blinds open. Light flooded the room, and Yoongi and Hoseok moved through the large studio (which was currently covered in crumpled canvas and what looked like melted wax) in search of Jungkook.
“Jungkook, where in God’s name are you?”
On the far end of the room, a tuft of soft brown hair, followed by two big, doe-eyes appeared over the edge of a large canvas.
“My lord?” the youth enquired, his voice cracking.
“Jesus, what are you doing there sitting in the dark in that corner?” Yoongi coughed, as he breathed in the dust that had accumulated over the last month.
“I was attempting to work on my new piece,” Jungkook said quietly, as he rose slowly from his seat, dusting himself off and fastening the cuffs of his shirt. “I apologise for my appearance. I wasn’t expecting you to visit the Room today.”
“You were working in the dark? Why?” Yoongi asked, concernedly.
“The light makes it hard to think clearly, my lord.”
“Jesus, don’t call him that, it makes my skin crawl,” Hoseok said, flopping onto a section of a plush velvet couch that was, thankfully, clear of any sort of canvas.
Yoongi smiled at Jungkook, observing the young man as he fumbled around his work station in search of his jacket. “Yes, Kook, you might not have my blood, but you did spend your late adolescence in this house. I don’t expect you to stand on ceremony.”
“I apologise. It’s a habit,” Jungkook said, a wan smile creasing his lips.
“Alrighty then! Show us what you’ve achieved in the last few months that you’ve been hiding away up here!” Hoseok said, grinning with approval as the butler reappeared with a silver platter of fruit.
Yoongi nodded. “Yes, Jungkookie, what new ground have you broken?”
Jungkook sighed, his eyes downcast.
“Truth be told, I’ve done nothing,” he said, his voice quivering. “Nothing at all. It’s been six months, of sketching and re-sketching vague outlines, but nothing inspires me enough to put oil to canvas.”
“Are you not comfortable in the Purple Room, Kook? I could arrange to have you sent away, perhaps to the Lakes. We do have a fine cottage where you could work…”
“Please, my lord - I mean, Yoongi - the Mins have done enough for me. Fed me, clothed me - it’s just my fault that these hands do not do my bidding as they used to,” Jungkook said, shuffling around the tables and tidying up the sheets of canvas strewn around the room.
Yoongi exchanged a glance with Hoseok.
“Well, Jungkookie, I might have a solution to your problem!” Hoseok said cheerfully as he crunched on a bright red apple.
Jungkook’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Lord Jung here thinks it’s high time that House Min threw a good party - and he’s right. We haven’t done that in two years - since the Queen died,” Yoongi said.
“And what better way to kick off the fall festivities than with an elegant dinner, with your art as the centrepiece?” Hoseok chirped excitedly.
Jungkook gulped. “I’m not sure I understand. I am, at the moment, completely at a loss on how to begin my next piece - and an exhibition?”
Yoongi laid a reassuring hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Kook, I know you work best under pressure - and what you really need is to get out of this room. You’re uninspired, because you’re literally wallowing in a pit of darkness.”
Jungkook fidgeted with the paintbrush in his hands.
“So.”
The young man’s eyes flitted up to meet Yoongi’s, and he felt a certain sense of discomfort as a smile spread across the older man’s face.
“We’re taking you to Paris!” Hoseok yelled, jumping up and down. “It’s the Yoon-Seok Trip of Inspiration down the Rabbithole of Sin!”
And all Jungkook could think about this proposition - of leaving the country for the first time ever, and with these two - was that this was a very, very bad idea.
“My lord, I -”
“Hush, Kook. Let them dress you and we can be on our way out of this place - it’s positively freezing in here.”
Over ten hours of riding in a carriage to Dover with an overexcitable Hoseok and a carriage-sick Yoongi had not been the most pleasant of experiences for Jungkook. He had clutched his sketchbook to his chest and prayed that Yoongi would not throw up on his shoes (or his art supplies).
It was with great relief that he had stepped off the carriage, only to be escorted quickly onto a boat, where he once again braved Hoseok’s antics in their cabin, and dealt with a seasick Yoongi. They had taken only two servants with them - one to carry their bags and another to serve them food - but Jungkook still felt extremely unaccustomed to people fawning over him and attending to his every need.
But another carriage ride from Calais to Paris, and they were finally in the capital. Jungkook dreaded the return leg of the journey - for he knew Yoongi and his partiality to vomiting into a spittoon instead of a disposable receptacle (and having to put up with the smell for hours) was unlikely to change in the weeks to come.
Worst of all, he hadn’t been given his own room in the Min’s city house in Paris - he was sharing a suite with the Min’s head butler, Namjoon, who he swore had it out for him with those thunderous snores. Jungkook was nobility after all - a lesser noble perhaps (his father being a baron of a small county who had sworn allegiance to Lord Min years ago) - but he really thought he would have had his own space to work, eat and sleep. Especially since this trip was supposed to have been for him.
Jungkook was aware, however, that while Yoongi had, in a spirit of goodwill, brought him along and paid for his passage to France, the Min heir had things to do and a schedule to keep. It was with that realisation that he would get no painting done whatsoever that Jungkook resigned himself to trailing behind Yoongi and Hoseok as they went from social event to social event, schmoozing their French counterparts and indulging in sweet treats from the capital’s finest patisseries.
“God, Yoongi, her cheeks were the colour of roses, her lips the tint of the most vibrant sunset,” Hoseok sighed, as he flopped onto the chaise lounge beside Yoongi.
Yoongi glared disapprovingly at Hoseok as the man continued to wax lyrical about some French courtesan he had set eyes on in passing at a dinner. He flicked open his pocket watch to check the time, then tapped his cane against the ground to get Namjoon’s attention.
“Yes, milord?” Namjoon turned away from buttoning Jungkook’s blouse to answer Yoongi’s call.
“Nothing too fancy today for the young master Jeon’s outer wear, the navy jacket with gold buckles will do. I’d like to be out of this place in a quarter of an hour. And tell Jackson to fetch Lord Jung a glass of chilled water, it will cool him down and hopefully jolt him out of his French flights of fancy,” Yoongi said.
“Certainly, milord,” Namjoon said, and bowed to Jungkook and Hoseok as he left the room. Jungkook took advantage of Namjoon’s absence to quickly button the rest of his shirt and secure his waistcoat himself - he was still not used to people touching him all over and dressing him for the day.
As Yoongi and Hoseok squabbled in the background over Hoseok’s improper thoughts and the definition of indecorous behaviour, Jungkook settled down into an armchair, crossing his hands over his legs. His hands shook a little, even in the warmth, and he clasped them tightly to halt the tremor. It was the longest that he had gone without painting something proper, and the thought that his talents only extended this far made him nervous. As much as the Mins had showed him courtesy and great hospitality, his tenancy at the Purple Room was, after all, contingent on him being their resident artist, and contributing regular portraits to the galleries of their great nation. Jungkook’s talent brought honour to the house, and without it, he would return to the cold moors of his father’s land, far from the rich, lush gardens of the estate; bereft of his tools and separated from his friends.
Yet Jungkook felt nothing. Even in Paris - a city bursting at the seams with life, their royalty dripping with diamonds in glitter - nothing caught Jungkook’s eye. His heart remained cold and unmoved to the charms of this world - where beautiful women glanced at him coyly from behind their feathered fans, where the silks of his new and stylish clothes rustled as he walked.
Jungkook thought back to those days on the Min’s estate, where he would feel the warmth of the sun on his skin as it peeked over the horizon. Where he would inhale the crisp morning air, feel the wetness of the dew on his fingertips. And he would feel at home, alive.
He sighed, casting his eyes out of the apartment’s window, across the sunlight roofs of Paris.
If I could just find it again, he mused. That feeling, just once more.
Jungkook had bolted.
There was no other word for the way in which he had risen clumsily from the table, almost tripping over Hoseok’s legs and spilling the wine all over a Marquis. Jungkook had done what no one in high society, let alone an English lordling, would have done - he had run out of a ballroom, practically kicking over a table and nearly bowling over a waiter in the process, leaving everyone open-mouthed and incredulous.
In his defense, he hadn’t expected that sixteen-year-old French countess to run her fingers that far up his thigh. Speaking of indecorous behaviour, Jungkook was all but sure that trying to molest a dinner guest was pretty high up the list.
So there he was, running across a bridge in Paris, with his jacket unbuttoned, and his hair askew, with no particular destination in mind. It was after about ten minutes of running blindly, shoving past people who directed a few choice French curses at him, that Jungkook stopped to catch his breath. It was then that he realised he was, well and truly, done for.
For the past few days, Jungkook had been escorted around by Yoongi and Hoseok, with Namjoon following closely behind. He had paid little mind to which mansion they visited or who they spoke to - it was of little interest to him. But it was at this moment, at an hour close to midnight, that Jungkook realised that he should probably have paid a tad more heed to where he lived.
He sighed, and shook his head as he panted. Damn the French, he thought. Curse Hoseok, and his bright idea of seating him next to an eligible French girl. Curse Namjoon, for dressing him in an outfit that apparently made his thighs look attractive and open for touching to said French girl. Curse Yoongi for cackling as he ran out of the dining hall in disgrace. And curse the fates, for giving him such a short attention span for anything that wasn’t art that he couldn’t even remember where the hell he lived.
“Just as well,” Jungkook muttered. He could just die in a drain right here, right now, and he’d never have to explain to Yoongi how he let a French Countess feel him up for a full half minute. Damn them all -
“Oof!”
In his anger, he had collided hard, with something soft and warm that had positively barrelled into him. Jungkook groaned as a splitting pain started in his lower back, where his posterior had hit the stone floors hard.
“A curse on your house, what in god’s name did you think…”
Jungkook stopped short as he observed a thin, blonde boy, who lay sprawled on the pavement before him. The boy winced as he moved, and looked significantly more injured than Jungkook. He had scraped his hands and knees on the gravel of the road, and the wounds were red and raw. He had also cut his lip - for blood had tinted them red as well.
And then he saw them - those stunning, electric-blue eyes that glittered in the night. Eyes that seemed to be fast-filling with tears of pain, as he hauled himself off the road.
“Pardon me, I am deeply sorry, milord,” the boy said, bowing quickly as he wiped the blood off his mouth. He took in Jungkook’s appearance - the silk shirts, the gold-trimmed jacket, and the elegant leather shoes - and backed away, still curved into a bow. “I was so terribly clumsy, please forgive a man for his wrongdoing.”
“I - no, I…”
“Sir, I beg your forgiveness. I will be on my way, I meant no harm -” the boy said, his voice quavering with fear as he fell to his knees.
“No, no! Please don’t kneel, there’s nothing that needs to be forgiven! I was- wasn’t looking!” Jungkook said hurriedly, extending his arms to lift the young man off his feet.
The boy stepped back hurriedly, out of Jungkook’s reach, as he bowed deeply again. He lifted his chin and smiled at Jungkook - an open, honest grin that somehow resembled a box. Jungkook couldn’t help but smile back at the boy as the latter dusted himself off.
“Sorry, I was running home, milord, I always run, you see, it saves time - and I was cold as well,” the boy explained, stooping to gather up the things that had, presumably, previously been in his arms.
“Ah,” Jungkook said, at a loss for words at the deluge of information that the boy was giving him, as he bent to help him.
“No, please don’t help me, milord, I can manage!” the boy said, laughter in his voice. Jungkook hesitated, but continued to help gather the many sheets of paper that the boy was rather inefficiently attempting to collect. He noticed as the boy grimaced when his open wounds grazed the pavement lightly as he grabbed, rather awkwardly, at several loose pieces that had fluttered away.
“Are you quite alright?” Jungkook asked, as he handed the boy the stack of papers that he had collected.
“Yes, milord, I’m alright, this happens quite often, my grandma said it’s because I leave the house without putting my eyes into my head!” the boy said cheerfully, in spite of the blood drying on his elbows and shins.
Jungkook coughed, stepped back, and gave the boy a slight, formal tilt of his top hat. “Good night, then.”
“Oh…kay, goodnight!” The boy said, and waved weakly as he hefted the papers in his hands.
Jung kook had taken two steps before he stopped again, and turned.
“Hey, uh, you! A moment… wait!”
The boy halted, and smiled. “Yes, milord?”
“Uh… So, I’m not from here.”
“I sort of guessed, milord. The accent ain’t French, y’know.”
“Ah, yes, yes. But uh, I kind of, got lost? Don’t quite know how to get back to where I’m staying…”
“Oh! Uh, could you send for a servant? I thought English lord like you would have had servants!”
Jungkook sighed. “Well, they clearly aren’t with me at the moment now.”
“Ooh. Well, we’re near the river, if it helps.”
Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, and darted to the river bank, which was but several feet from where they stood.
“I gathered as much.”
“Uh, well, um, we’re near the Tuileries Palace now, so if you go further down, you’ll cross the bridge, and - wait, you don’t know where you’re going?”
Jungkook exhaled. “I mentioned that.”
“Oh. Are there any… buildings you remember?”
Jungkook considered the boy’s question for a moment. “Ah! Yes, there’s a building, a big church called the Notre Dame…”
“Ah! It’s not that far! I’ll walk you there, it’s no good for a fancy man like you to be wandering around alone this time of the night! Come on!” The boy beckoned, and Jungkook followed, falling into step with him.
“What about you? What are you doing out here so late?” Jungkook asked.
“Oh, I deliver things, sir. I was making a run from the printing house to the bookbinder’s, they’ll be wanting this by the early morning.”
“I am sorry for interrupting your work,” Jungkook apologised, and was met with a chuckle.
“S’ok, milord! Don’t know what you would have done without me!” the boy said, adjusting the papers in his arm and wrapping his red scarf tighter around his neck with his free hand.
Jungkook smiled, but that quickly turned into a frown as he noticed how the boy trotted along on dirty, worn-out shoes. They looked to be white, originally - but were now scuffed at the side and blackened at certain portions.
“Your shoes - how do you walk?”
“I walk, milord! They’re as good as new!”
“Hm,” Jungkook said. “Perhaps I could give you some money, for your trouble -”
The boy stopped in his tracks, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “I might be poor, milord, but I’m just helping you find your way back to your residence. I don’t expect to be paid for a service.”
Jungkook felt the words catch in his throat, and he nodded quickly in agreement. “Thank you.”
They walked in silence for a while, until the boy piped up again.
“So - what’s an Englishman like you doing here in Paris?”
“Accompanying my liege lord on a trip.”
“That mustn’t be so interesting.”
“It isn’t,” Jungkook chuckled.
“But what do you do, back in England? Do you ride horses all day and practice sword fighting?”
“No, not quite. I… paint, you see. Or rather, painted.”
“Why don’t you paint anymore?” the boy inquired, his eyes bright with curiosity.
“I… Well, the short answer is, I can’t.”
“And the long answer?”
Jungkook played with his fingers, as they continued to walk slowly along the riverbank. The water was silent, and the light from so many windows twinkled in the Parisian night - but Jungkook still felt it - the great nothingness, that bore down on him from every side.
“I used to paint, a lot,” he explained, “And then one day, the inspiration just stopped flowing. The sun stopped feeling warm on my skin, and the paint just looked dull, colourless. I tried to paint, over and over, but I just couldn’t. I'm not sure if it was because I felt so burdened under the pressure to keep churning out spectacular paintings. It’s like my life had lost all meaning, once I stopped painting well. And it scares me to death - the thought that this existence of mine is but worth this much - to as far as my talent extends. And perhaps I don't realise it yet, but maybe I am, after all, only worth this much.”
Jungkook noticed that the boy was now gazing at him with a certain sadness in his eyes.
“Why - ah, why am I telling you this,” Jungkook said, embarrassed, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his jacket.
“No, milord, thank you for your story. But, you know, I don’t agree with you.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, I don’t think any of us are worth a specific amount of anything. I mean, I’m dirt poor, as you can see. Some days where things get tough, when I get beaten at work, when I haven’t eaten all day… I take the long walk - or rather, an occasional run - along the riverbank. And it’s so quiet, this time of the night, and when I look up, I can see the stars, so far up above us.”
“Then I think - there is some purpose to me being here. Somehow, somewhere, I’ve been given a destiny, a great love, a reason for living. And that reason, well, I can’t say I’ve found it yet. But it’ll be worth everything. Every breath I’ve taken, every stumble on the road. And this - this love, is worth finding, worth chasing.”
Jungkook considered the boy closely. No one had ever spoken to him with such frankness, without any fear of being reprimanded. And here he was - this poor, Parisian boy, who scarcely looked older than himself, talking to him about life.
But there it was - the answer that Jungkook had searched for, all this while. There it was, in the ramblings of a this slight, young man, whose eyes sparkled as he spoke, whose lilting words sounded like music.
“We’re here.”
Jungkook stopped, and looked around. Sure enough, they now stood in the middle of a bridge - and right on the other end, stood the Min’s residence - a tall, imposing building, with polished marble steps and roses on the balcony.
“I will leave you now, milord. You will be safe from here on,” the boy bowed, his bright blue eyes still shining with happiness.
“I - thank you. For walking me back, and - for talking to me. I feel… better now,” Jungkook stuttered, nodding in thanks.
“Well - it was my pleasure,” the boy bowed again, and turned to go. Jungkook watched as he moved further away, and was just about to turn on his heel and make his way across the other half of the bridge, when the boy paused, and looked back at him
“Milord,” he shouted, “I hope, with all my heart, that you do find it.”
And with that, Jungkook watched, wordlessly, as the slight figure retreated into the darkness, and disappeared into the night.
“Young master Jeon - this is brilliant. Truly amazing. The colours, the contrast. The brushstrokes. It’s a masterpiece. Young Lord Min must be so proud,” the Duke (whose title Jungkook could not remember for the life of him) gushed.
“Ah… it’s alright, I guess,” Jungkook said, his face turning red as he blushed.
“Jungkook is always ever so modest,” Yoongi said, clapping Jungkook on the back. “It’s absolutely fantastic, isn’t it? Just a trip to Paris - sparked all the inspiration he needed for this gallery to be filled with life again.”
“Well, we rarely invest in art - but we would be delighted to have young master Jeon come by the manor to paint a portrait of my daughter at any time.”
“The Purple Room is my personal studio,” Jungkook said quietly. “And it wouldn’t be so convenient at this moment, as I’m headed to the south of France to paint the sceneries of the coast-”
“What Jungkook means,” Yoongi cut in. “Is that he’ll be happy to come by, before Spring arrives.”
Jungkook sighed, and forced a smile as the duke looked appeased with Yoongi’s answer and excused himself to help himself to what was presumably more wine.
“Yoongi… you know I won’t do it.”
“Yes, but that’s not what they want to hear.”
He shook his head, resigned.
“This is great work, Kook. You’ve really surpassed all expectations this time,” Hoseok said, as he tilted the goblet of white wine in an attempt to down the glass in one shot.
“What do you know about art?” Yoongi scoffed.
“Enough to know that this is bloody good! Of course, it’s weird for him to be able to paint a poor French boy this well without ever, you know, knowing any poor people.”
“Yeah and being able to draw poor people is what makes good art so novel, get your head out of your noble arse, Hoseok.”
Jungkook shifted discreetly away from the bickering duo and moved closer to the painting. He observed it, again - as he had, for so many weeks, in the run-up to the fall opening. The brown hair, caressing the boy’s forehead; the curve of his nose, and the pink of his cheeks.
He wondered, still, if the oils he mixed truly reflected the shade of his eyes - the azure tint reminiscent of a brilliant blue sky. And he wondered - if that nameless boy was still running, still chasing whatever he thought was ahead of him; if he had found whatever he was looking for.
I haven’t found it yet. Jungkook thought. Not quite, I think. But I too, will chase it. I should be the one - to look for it. This great love that you speak of, this grand destiny.
Even if it takes nine lives.
Inspired by this.